Hostage Three (30 page)

I turn to look at the shore. I watch as a four-by-four bounces over the dunes and pulls up by the discarded boats on the beach. Someone gets out and leans on the door, binoculars to their eyes. The pirates' contact on shore, I guess.

I think, couldn't I stay? Could I just jump off the yacht and make for the shore?

I've been in the water, when I snorkelled. It's warm. I could jump in there and swim, get in that four-by-four, let them drive me away . . .

— Amy, Dad says, pushing me forward. Come on.

I stumble, then walk. Someone is making me go. That's good – someone is taking the choice away from me. And yes, I'm aware of the irony.

Dad pauses before getting into the dinghy.

— You don't have to do this, he says to the stepmother.

— Yes, I do, she says back.

I notice that the sun has brought out freckles on her face, dusted them across her nose. It makes her look pretty.

Dad sighs and hesitates, then walks over to her. He gives her a kiss on the cheek.

— Thank you, he says. I love you for this.

She smiles wanly.

— You didn't love me before?

— Yes, he says.

And me? you ask. What do I do? Well, I don't walk over to her, but I do smile. And if you knew me, you would know that was a huge deal.

She smiles back, big, showing her white teeth.

— If you come Somalia, you call me, says Ahmed, breaking the spell. Surreally, absurdly, he hands Dad a piece of paper with his phone number written on it. I help you, I show you around. You come Puntland – is very beautiful.

Dad is dumbfounded.

— Er, thank you, he says. I think.

— Yes, thank you, Ahmed, I say.

I kind of get it, actually. This wasn't personal for him. It was a job. We had lots of money and he didn't have much at all. He was just redistributing wealth, like Miss Walker talked about in our economics classes.

Events tumble into one another. We are on the deck, then, for a split second, we are straddling the sea, one foot up and one foot down, then we are in the dinghy. The stepmother is still on the yacht with the pirates. Cooler air from the sea rises around us, cocooning us. Tony is there, Damian, Felipe. There are life jackets, but we don't put them on; the idea seems preposterous. We have a VHF and Tony says into it that we are leaving the yacht, that we are all safe.

Wait, I think. Then I say it out loud:

— Wait. Wait.

— What is it, Amy-bear? Dad asks.

I get up and climb back on to the yacht, wobbling a little, almost falling. All the time Dad is asking me what is going on. I go over to the stepmother.

— You go with Dad, I say. I'll do it. I'll be the collateral.

— Don't be ridiculous, says the stepmother. You're a child. You can't.

— I can, I say. In fact, it's safer for me. I am looking at Farouz as I say this.

— What? Why?

— You wouldn't understand. Just, please, go. Get in the boat. I will join you soon.

— What's going on? Tony shouts from the boat. What's the hold-up?

— Amy wants to go with them instead, says the stepmother. She wants to swap with me.

— That's out of the question, says Dad.

I push the stepmother towards the boat.

— Please, I say. Please. It's easier this way.

Eventually, she sort of stumbles on to the dinghy, leaving the yacht behind. Dad is red in the face now, spittle coming from his mouth.

— YOU COME BACK HERE, AMY FIELDS, he shouts.

— No, I say.

I don't move.

Then Dad starts to get out of the boat, but Tony stops him, and there's this whole ridiculous situation going on, until Ahmed shoots his gun in the air. Immediately the VHF spits into life as someone asks if everything is OK.

— Is fine, Ahmed says back to them.

— What's the delay? they ask.

Ahmed turns to us.

— Come on! he says. Who is stay? Who is go?

I plant my feet, hard, on the ground.

— I'm staying, I say.

— AMY FIELDS, DON'T EVEN THINK –

— Dad, I say softly. Please. I'll be OK, I promise. Just let me do this.

He looks at me long and slow.

— Please, I say again.

At the same time the navy are asking over and over what the hold-up is.

— We don't have time for this, says Tony.

Dad looks at him in horror.

— Seriously, this is jeopardising the whole operation, Tony continues. Make a decision, quickly.

Troops are running over there on the destroyer. We can all see them.

— Go, says Ahmed. Go.

— Come on, says Damian. We can't force her to stay on the dinghy.

Dad glares at him, but he doesn't say anything.

And that seems to settle the matter, because finally Tony starts the outboard and the little boat pulls away, leaving the yacht behind.

With me on it.

Alone with the pirates.

As we stand there on the deck
watching the dinghy, with Dad and the stepmother and Damian and Tony and Felipe on it, as it pulls away from us and towards the navy vessel, a signal comes through on Ahmed's VHF. The three pirates have evidently received the rest of the ransom, because Ahmed nods and then indicates for us to get into the remaining two boats. We do; the swell of the sea takes us, cradles us. The motor starts up, and we accelerate over the waves; the seawater sprays cool on my face.

Suddenly, the yacht, which had been our whole world, seems small as I look at it from the outside, and it's getting smaller. Suddenly, I can't believe we lived in that little thing for so long, and also, from the growing distance, it seems like it wasn't so long.

I'm going to Somalia, I think dumbly.

When we reach the beach, Ahmed points to my trainers.

— Take off, he says. Sand will eat them.

I pull the shoes off and jump barefoot out of the boat into the shallow water. I'm amazed by how hot it is, warmed by the sun. I walk up on to the sand, and it burns, making me yelp and cling to Farouz's arm. That's when I see Ahmed frown at me.

Further up, we come to where the four-by-four has stopped. Ahmed meets up with the three pirates from the helicopter rendezvous, who have come up on the beach in their wooden boat. He takes one black sports bag from them. He hands it through the window of the jeep to someone sitting in there – Amir, I guess, the sponsor. Then the wheels of the jeep bite the sand, flinging it into the air, as it guns away, reversing in a circle before racing off towards the dunes.

After that, two pickups approach, much more battered than the four-by-four. I figure these are the pirates' own vehicles. The men hoist up the bags and load one into each of the trucks.

Further inland, above the dunes, I can see the shacks on the lowlands of Eyl. I can just make out figures, watching from a distance, and the awnings of what might be little cafés, with plastic furniture in the dust outside them. There are dogs, too, milling around. There are no trees, except higher up in the mountains, which stretch up from the beach, just scrub.

I am in Somalia, I think. I am standing on Somalia.

A pirate gets into one of the pickup trucks and leaves the driver's door open. He beckons for the others.

Ahmed points to one of the boats that we just came in on.

— I show you motor, he says. Then you go.

— That's not necessary, I reply.

— What?

— I'm staying, I say. Here. With Farouz.

Farouz hears his name and looks over. When he sees the expression on Ahmed's face, he walks up to us.

— What's wrong? he says.

Ahmed rattles Somali at him.

Farouz clearly doesn't know whether to smile or furrow his brow. He kind of does both.

— It's not possible, he says.

— Of course it is, I say. I'm just not going back.

— Navy! Ahmed says, pointing to the destroyer. Navy!

— The navy will come after us, Farouz says to me.

— How? They're on a ship.

— They have a helicopter.

— They can't, can they? I say. This is Somali territory. They can't just fly over it without permission.

I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds true.

Farouz stops short. He turns to Ahmed, says something.

Ahmed throws up his hands, barks out a reply.

— If you stay here in Somalia, we will be . . . What is the word? When no one will speak to you?

— Pariahs?

— Is that the word? Yes, OK. We will be . . . pariahs. The other coast guard will hate us even more. Not harming hostages, that is how we survive. If we take you, we break the code. Others will suffer. And then the navy will come after us, when they do get permission, which they will, and –

— You're not harming me, I say. I'm coming of my own free will. I can tell them that. I can write to the news in England and tell them.

— The other pir–. I mean, the other coast guard will not care. They will say we are traitors to our own kind.

— Who cares? I say. You have millions of dollars now. You can do what you want.

That really makes him think. He obviously translates to Ahmed, because then Ahmed is nodding reluctantly. He can see my point.

— And anyway, I say, they won't know, not to begin with. Put a man in the boat with a blanket over his head. Send him back towards the ship. By the time they realise we can be gone. I will get in the pickup truck with you. Please, I say to Ahmed. Please, I love him. I can't leave him.

— You love Farouz?

I nod.

— And Farouz? He love you? He looks at Farouz.

— Yes, says Farouz.

Ahmed fidgets, rubbing his fingers together.

— Fuck. Fuck. OK, he says.

We get in one of the pickups
. The engine starts, then it pulls forward and accelerates. After so long on the yacht, I have forgotten motion like this – the sudden speed of it; the way it feels like it is the slingshot, but also the thing that it is firing.

After the pickups bounce up the dunes, we stop in Eyl for a while. The pirates are obviously nervous, more nervous than me, and keep hold of their guns the whole time. I guess this would be a good time for someone to swoop in and take the money, and the pirates are freaked out by the idea. I assume this is why they have two trucks, with the money divided between them – if one of the trucks gets hit, at least not all the money will be taken.

I don't know why I'm thinking so calmly about this idea. If one of the trucks gets hit, if my truck gets hit, I will be dead.

The pirates make a stop here because they have to pay some little storekeepers – I assume these are the people who supplied the cigarettes, the water, that kind of thing. Ahmed hands out bundles of money like it's Christmas. Mangy dogs follow us, as we go from shop to shop, Farouz's knuckles white on his pistol. Old men chew khat outside cafés, sitting in the shade. A blind beggar sits on his haunches, hands out.

Finally, we get back in the pickups and hit the dry road – well, it's more of a track, really. Some of the tension disappears. We head up into the hills, spewing brown dust behind us. There are white peaks of mountains in front and we drive towards them, snaking up into the highlands.

My dad is going to go ape-shit, I think. This is going to hurt him so much, I know that. But somehow I can't bring myself to care. The truth is that Mom left me, but then Dad left me, too. And that's hard to forgive because my dad is still here. I mean, his body is like a shell being carted around by some impostor person, a hermit crab who took over when Mom died.

He has only himself to blame for this. That's what I tell myself, as the jeep cruises deeper into Somalia.

As we drive, as we cross the mountains on a hair-raising pass, the track becomes more and more like a road, until, when we come down the other side on to a plateau, it is practically a highway. Now we start to see other people, the occasional beat-up car, a man using a donkey to pull a cart. The desert stretches all around us, hazy with heat. I see a clump of trees in the distance, that I take to be an oasis.

I am in Somalia, I think again. In the desert. Driving to a place I only heard of the other day.

Galkayo, when we come to it from the desert hours later, is exactly as I imagined it. Low houses, most of them daubed with white to keep out the heat of the sun, with flat roofs, the occasional stork nesting up there. What does surprise me, though, is that in one district, as we drive through, there are the kinds of houses you'd see in California: columns by the front door, two or three floors high. One has a new Chevrolet parked outside, gleaming black; another, a silver Mercedes.